Happy Hogswatch
by TraditionalGaily
Summary: A boring hogswatch night with Inigo being forced to spend the holiday season in solitude at the Guild of Assassins, again. Yet there is a lucrative task, which might attract other people's attention. Belated Holiday special.


**So here it is another hogswatch impression of my favourite three Assassins. I know it is a bit late, but since hogswatch is a strange blend of Christmas and New Year, I think it is still timely.**

* * *

Snow was cascading down, suicidal snowflakes tumbling toward the chimneys and rooftops.  
That's what poets would have said, describing the weather in question.  
And had the city in question not been Ankh-Morpork, this probably would have been accurate.  
An interesting, though less poetical phenomenon was taking place.  
The white snowflakes drifting down met black sooty particles polluting upwards and despite this forming some kind of metaphorical yin-yang, the result was a disappointing grey slush tainting the streets.  
There was no snow as such, just slush.  
Slush dripping from roofs, children throwing slush at each other and some enthusiastic ones were trying to build a slush man.  
But it was considered festive.  
It was Hogswatch after all.

Inigo Skimmer was sitting in his humble, hence crammed room in the Guild of Assassins readjusting his tie. With most of the Assassins spending their holidays with loved ones or hated once, hence family, Inigo had been appointed to Hogswatchwatch, as it was mockingly referred to by colleagues whose families actually cared about.  
But it had its upside.  
He had been appointed to a quite lucrative task.  
An inhuming on Hogswatch.  
Unusual perhaps, but not objectionable whatsoever.  
No reason to turn down a commission if it was right, hence if the money was right.

Inigo reopened the box containing Christmas cookies his family had sent to him, though what had arrived after its long and bumpy journey was one condensed sugary grease ball with bits of coconut, chocolate chunks and various nuts sticking out at each end.  
He scraped off a small slice before grabbing his coat and hurrying out in the night.

With his brown worn coat wrapped around him tightly, Inigo preferred the streets to reckless dives from one slippery roof to another.  
How romantic the daredevil route may seem, Inigo favoured his bones whole and sticking out at the right angle, thank you very much.  
Of course he was aware of the senior Assassins disapproving of his attitude and while black was considered an Assassins privilege, Inigo chose to look inconspicuous. Though there was hardly anything matching the inconspicuous, average, plain look of Inigo Skimmer.  
His average looks were above average.  
Silently he seemed to glide through the streets until he had reached his destination.  
He compared the address again to the one he had written down, before soundlessly slipping inside the run down building.

It was not a house he was trespassing, nor an estate, it was a manor.  
And the old Lord Tranquilius was unhealthily attached to his own life, at least for his hopefully soon successors' taste.  
They had decided that he might need a little push in the right direction, preferably down some long stairs.  
An old man, almost blind yet with extraordinary hearing as Inigo's little research had revealed.  
Oh and due to the secret conversations, as his relatives had been plotting against him, he had overheard that there was a whole arsenal of traps securing his house.

Inigo crouched around a corner, ducking just in time as an arrow shot past him.  
He scrambled over knife-filled pits and awkwardly hopped along a long corridor alternately protected by trap doors, swinging axes and stone figures breathing fire.  
Finally he had reached the parlour and had melted with the shadows listening intently for the sly old fox.  
The fire had gone out quite a while ago, the firewood crackling in the afterglow was disturbing the dusty silence.  
He must be upstairs in his bed, Inigo thought as he prepared an assortment of daggers and readjusted the blow gun strapped to his back.  
Let's see, if he used the chandelier as…

A soft thud caught his attention as a log rolled out of the almost dead fire.  
And disintegrated.  
And formed a human shaped body.  
One with golden locks attached to its head.  
Oh, no…

"What are you doing?" he whispered perplexed.

"Going after my business," Teatime explained cheerfully, "only I could ask you the same question, though I'd refrain from it's since it would not be very imaginative…"

"Business," Inigo continued not quite getting the grasp of the current situation, "you don't mean Lord Tranquilius…"

"The same," Teatime whispered as he brushed off his soot covered vest.

"This cannot be quite right mhm, mhm," Inigo continued, "I have been appointed for his inhuming."

"No you haven't," Teatime replied, sounding not the least bit disturbed by another Assassin's presence, "Incidentally it was I who received the request."

Oh the holiday season, Inigo snorted.  
The time of the year when even the most disciplined man is turned into an idiot at the prospects of a few free days spent in peace. (Aka drunk like there was no tomorrow.)  
Of course, Teatime was available at the time of the year usually spent with loved ones, well with him lacking the aforesaid requirements.  
And by mistake both of them had been appointed for the inhuming.

"Well mhm, mhm," Inigo cut through the silence, "what are we going to do about that little cock-up?"

"Simple," Teatime polished a dagger which disappeared into the recesses of his clothing only seconds later, "We'll draw corpses."

"Straws," Inigo corrected him automatically.

"My suggestion was much more interesting," Teatime commented while juggling with a few poisonous darts, "how about, I'm more senior than you so I get to kill him?"

"Mhm, mhm, this is not quite fair," Inigo protested," What about skill mhm, mhm? My dagger throwing technique is superior to yours."

"I hope you didn't suggest to inhume Lord Tranquilius this way," Teatime mocked him, "this situation clearly calls for a climb on the roof, the bedroom window to be opened just a crack and a noose..."

"Poisoned darts would be much more efficient," Inigo contradicted him, "and my research confirmed mhm, mhm that paranoid Lord Tranquilius has a dummy propped up in his bed, but spends the night in his drafty library."

The bickering Assassins were oblivious to the black hooded figure that had crept up the beam above their heads, but had stopped and was now listening intently to their quarrel.

"I know that," Teatime protested, "that's why I would have waited for him to check on the dummy so I could sneak up behind him and slit his throat."

"Your lack for mhm, mhmh style is intriguing as always," Inigo sniggered.

"Style," Teatime was offended, "Just last week when I had to inhume the three Parliano brothers during dinner I placed their decapitated heads into each other's soup bowls, if that isn't style, then I don't what is."

The figure had silently dropped from the beam and melted into the back ground where it was hiding behind a coat hanger overflowing with old rags.

"That's just mhm, mhm mental..."

"Is that so," Teatime's voice could have sharpened daggers, "well if you'd done your research properly you would have known that due to an unfortunate incident last week, involving a bookshelf, two crows and a rampaging swamp dragon that must have escaped from the 'Sunshine Sanctuary for sick Dragons' hospital, the library is nothing but a gaping hole with bits of parchment slowly drifting down, which no doubt gives it quite a festive air. So Lord Tranquilius spends the nights shallowly sleeping in one of his laundry baskets."

"Mhm, mhm at least I'm not constantly admonished for my unorthodox methods."

"Well, at least my throat slit scored a 9.3 in the last competition."

"My accuracy with a crossbow scored a 9.7," Inigo snapped.

"My kpm (kills per minute) is an unreachable 37," and Teatime added dismissively," while if I remember correctly you claim a meagre 19. Hardly Assassin material."

The following argument whether and who scored what at which occasion and why an opossum was considered a dangerous weapon indeed, was used by the stranger to dart for the stairs where he stopped, waiting to steal his way upstairs unperceived by the duo.  
There was a distant thump, though it was drowned out by Teatime lecturing Inigo about the quite fascinating trap a firecracker, a glass of honey and a broom could make.

"...which is understandable. Though what really makes me mad is that our little Teppic over there believes he can sneak past us without any of us noticing."

Their heads turned to their colleague who almost tripped in mid-motion.

"Oh another, mhm mhm unfortunate colleague appointed to the same task. How far will this burlesque go?" Inigo commented on the exact same letter he and Teatime had been provided with.

"I'd say we'll take him together," Teppic proposed in his usual optimistic spirit.

"Out of the question," Teatime and Inigo disapproved simultaneously, though Inigo had added a trade mark 'mhm, mhm'.  
They glared at one another.

"An outrageous mhm, mhm proposal," Inigo began.

"Did you know that there exists no collective noun for a group of Assassins? That is because there is no such thing and I don't think inhuming is a matter one would..."  
Teatime was aware of the Teppic free spot he was lecturing.

"Don't bother thinking about that," Teppic shouted down the stairs, "we are too late already."

They inspected the dead body of Lord Tranquilius intently.

"Heart attack?" Teppic suggested.

"Definitely," Inigo approved.

"Caused by listening to your bickering over who the better Assassin is," Teppic added disapprovingly.

"Killed by words," Teatime said bemusedly on their way back to the guild.

"What are we going to do about it?" Teppic wanted to know.

"Simple," Inigo explained, "Teatime signed the receipt and we'll split the money mhm, mhm."

"Is that fair?" Teppic pressed further on, "I mean technically none of us did anything to him so I don't think dividing the sum by three would..."

"Who said anything about cutting mhm, mhm you in?" Inigo added smugly.

"What?"

"Yes, the disquieting conversation I had with Inigo caused his death after all."

Look at them supporting their arguments when they had fought over their victim only minutes ago, Teppic thought to himself.  
"Oh well, I didn't want to participate anyway," he continued," besides, how did you know it was me, Teatime?"

"The faint smell of dates gave it away," Teatime stated levelly.

"That's...racist...I think," Teppic added sniffing at his clothes, "and by the way it has got to do nothing with me, it was Chidder..."

"Chidder?" Inigo wanted to know.

"Mhm, mhm," Teatime added sniggering while Inigo glared at him.

"Well yes, a farewell present since he spends the holidays with his father. A bucket full of mackerels, two barrels filled with dates and a literal mouse pipe organ."

"But mhm, mhm how..." Inigo wanted to know.

"Don't ask," Teppic waved his hand vaguely.

And both Inigo and Teatime refrained from doing so.

"What is the time exactly?" Teppic wanted to know as the gates of the Assassins Guild came in view.

"Two minutes to midnight," Teatime stated after a quick glance at his pocket watch.

"Let me see that, will you?" Teppic snatched the odd clock from his hands.

The face of a bore was engraved in the lid and instead of hands there were two piglets running in circles telling the time.

"A hogswatch," Teatime exclaimed excitedly.

Somewhere out the clock at the unseen university struck midnight.

"Well," Teppic sighed, "happy hogswatch, you tossers."


End file.
